Sometimes When You Lose, You Win
by Angelique Daemon
Summary: Hungover and angry, what happens when Freya and Amarant run into each other after the travesty of the previous night? Sequel to 'No Lady'. Amarant/Freya


**Title: **Sometimes When You Lose, You Win

**Pairing:** Amarant/Freya

**Rating:** R (language)

**Author Notes:** This is the sequel to "No Lady," since apparently I can't just let something like that end on such a down note. Heh, this is why I couldn't ever write a death fic, I have to have a happy ending... or at least a neutral ending. I don't like leaving things sad, that makes it too much like real life. Anyway, I'm switching back to third person POV for this, so it shouldn't be as awkward. Enjoy.

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><p>Freya groaned as she slowly ascended to consciousness. Oh gods... had anyone gotten the make and model of the airship that had crashed into her head? She forced one sleep-crusted eye open and looked around the unfamiliar room for a moment, trying to remember where she was. It came back to her in a rush and she groaned again, pulling the thin, and somewhat smelly, blanket up over her head. Oh yes, she remembered. She remembered getting to Treno, walking to the bar, seeing Amarant and his little floozy, the four-armed man, and she certainly remembered laying on the ground for somewhere around ten minutes trying not to cry. When she had finally gotten up, she had gone into the bar, plopped down enough money to cover a room, as well as enough to get good and thoroughly drunk, and then got to work. She had been drinking something that smelled like it was distilled from kupo nuts, and it had gone down silk smooth... and then things got fuzzy. There was a lot of snarling, and a couple punches maybe... she touched her ribs and winced, yes punches were thrown. She let out another hearty groan, feeling a bit better every time her pain was released into the world, even if it made her head vibrate in an uncomfortable way. She finally found the strength to lift a hand and scrub at her face. She needed some coffee... something strong and black, but before that, she needed to get the cotton out of her head. With another pathetic groan, she rolled out of the bed, shivered her skin in the hopes that nothing that might have infested the bed would stay on her, and then headed off to find a place to soak her head.<p>

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><p>Amarant had woken up early, for him anyway. That fact made him surly, and the mild hangover he was nursing had not made it any better. He was in the room he had permanently rented in the bar, having returned some time in the wee hours, once he had gotten through with the stupid bint that had taken him home. He did not remember her name, and he was fine with that, and really could not be bothered to care. What was important for him was getting a cup of nice strong black coffee and getting it into his system as fast as humanly possible. He ignored the bed's creaking as he rolled to his feet and began searching for his clothing. He tried to keep his mind blank as he got dressed, since the less he thought, the less likely it was for his head to hurt, but his mind kept wandering back to the woman from last night. Not the idiot he had stuck it in, but the Burmecian woman that had kicked Jack's ass. He had kind of left her in a pile on the ground, and while he would not say he felt <em>guilty<em> about it, he... just thought he could have handled that better. It was probably a mark of how much the group in general, and one person in particular, had changed him that he even thought about it all. Still... he could not help but imagine Freya's pretty face under that hood, which was what had made him reach out and catch her before she had landed face first on the street. Well, there was no help for it, and if she was lucky, she would not be found face down somewhere in the river.

Once he finished getting dressed, he slunk out of his room in his usual stoop-shouldered manner, the posture petty much required for him to move anywhere indoors, and then made his way down the stairs. He grunted a greeting at the bartender, before plunking down on one of the stools and ignoring the tortured cry it gave at having to suddenly support his immense frame. He tapped the bar, knowing the man behind it would get him the coffee he needed. The sound of claws on wood made him look up at the stairs, and he watched passively as the Burmecian woman from the previous night descended the stairs, her face hidden deep in the shadows of her hood, as she seemed to be struggling with the fact that her people's grace had abandoned her entirely. So that was a hungover rat, huh? It was kind of funny to watch her reluctantly release the banister and then half-stumble to the door and out of it. Good thing it was Treno, or else she might have blinded herself, and made the pain in her head a million times worse. In a burst of empathy rarer than diamond, the monk ordered a second cup of coffee. He recognized that stumble. It was the 'I need to go stick my head in the river until either the pain abates a bit, or I drown' shuffle. Poor kid, she probably had never had strong liquor before.

That brought up two interesting questions. The first being why he assumed it was a kid, and the second being why the hell he cared. Who knew... maybe it was a kind of nod to his former comrade to feel... well anything for one of her people, especially when she seemed to be in bad shape. He snorted at the thought. She was not even around, but she had changed him so much. He guessed it figured, considering how often she waltzed into his thoughts and fantasies, screwing up his life. This train of thought was not helping his surly attitude, and he was half-tempted to just drink the other cup of coffee himself. Last night... last night had been _wholly_ unsatisfying... which was not to say that he did not get off, he always did, but running into a rat before heading off with that girl... he almost felt bad for how he had left her. Still, it was her fault for being stupid enough to give it a go, was it not? He scowled into his coffee and finished it off before tapping the bar for another. Damn that woman... not the stupid girl, Freya. She really had fucked his life up good and properly... not that it had been a _great_ life, but before her he had not had to worry about feeling... well much of anything in general, but guilt and such frustration in specific. He scowled darkly as he drank his refilled coffee, and tried to get his mind off its current track and on something more productive... like bounty heads.

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><p>Freya had stumbled out of the bar in that state of hangover that comes with tunnel vision and single-minded purpose. No one had bothered to fill the basin in the communal bathroom, or at the very least get fresh water for the pitcher, so she had decided that her best option was the river. It was where people got the water from anyway, and since it was mountain-fed it should be good and cold. With that purpose firmly in mind she had headed out, all her attention on getting to the river without falling on her face. The ladder down to the dock had been tricky, but she managed to reach her destination with only a little swearing. She acknowledged that she would have to remove her hood in order to soak her head, but at that point, if someone wanted to recognize the legendary Freya Crescent and throw her a Remedy, she would not have objected. Still, she waited until she got to the edge of the dock, and had sunken to her knees before pulling her hood off. She gripped the edge of the warping wood tightly and then leaned forward, hanging over the edge and sticking her head in the water. A curse escaped her at how cold it was, but the only things to hear it were the fish... and whatever monsters might be dwelling in the river... and she would not be surprised if there really were some. Still, she kept her head under the icy water until sparks exploded behind her eyes and her lungs screamed for air.<p>

She yanked her head up out of the water, throwing it back as she gasped for breath, her silver hair arcing gracefully through the air, shimmering in the city lights... until it landed on her back with an unwholesome _splat_, and stuck there wetly, dripping icy water down her spine. Another curse passed her lips, and once she was able to hear her voice, she noted that it was an awful, rough croak, as though she had been gargling glass shards. Fantastic. She tucked her wet hair into the hood, shivering and shuddering the whole time as the frigid water got _everywhere_ under the robe, and then pulled the hood up over her face again. Since there were no shouts of _'Oh my gods, it's Freya Crescent!'_ she assumed that if anyone bothered to take any notice, it was just to see a Burmecian woman soaking her head. Well that suited her just fine. She was going to go, have a gallon of coffee, and then plot a course back home and forget this whole... stupid debacle. What had she even been _thinking_ coming here? Of all the childish, fool things to be do, she had run off after a man when she already had one that loved her... even if being around him and watching him not remember their past made her heart ache. He loved her, and he was good to her, and that was what really mattered, right? That and the fact that he did not pick up little curvy bimbos at bars and go home with them.

She flushed in shame at the turn her thoughts were taking, and pushed them aside as unfitting a... well, as unfitting anyway. She scrambled up the ladder with slightly more grace than she had going down it, and despite the chill and the minor ache in her lungs, she felt a bit better for her soak. The cotton and cobwebs were gone from her mind, and even if her head still pounded, she could think around it. Hopefully the coffee would make that abate some, and she could get on with the return trip home. Killing some monsters along the way would probably do wonders for her mood, and she decided that she would return to Burmecia refreshed and feeling better for her trip, and motivated to throw herself back into work. With these thoughts firmly in mind, around the pounding that is, Freya walked back into the bar... and froze in her tracks at the sight of Amarant's hulking form slouching at the bar. _Shit_! She was starting to think the fates had it out for her... and she well deserved it, considering what she had done. She pulled her hood down lower over her face and then quietly made her way to a table in the back, and signaled for the bartender. She just... she just needed a cup of coffee in her, and then she would be on her way. Honestly, she was not sure why it even mattered that the monk was there. It was not like he would... wander over with a cup of coffee and strike up a conversation. The redhead simply did not _do_ that kind of thing.

She crossed her arms on the table top and then put her head down as she waited for the bartender to bring the coffee. Her ears twitched at the sound of a stool scraping but otherwise ignored it, keeping her head down, and silently praying those heavy footsteps would turn to the door. No such luck it seemed, since the footsteps stopped at her table. She heard the sound of a mug plunking down on the table, followed by the loud protest of a chair at having to support Amarant's bulk. She groaned not only at the noise stabbing her brain, but also at the fact that it seemed her former comrade had changed, and was now a veritable social butterfly.

Amarant had watched the woman walk back in, hesitate and then head to the back of the bar. Fair enough, he was hard not to recognize, and she was probably embarrassed to see him, considering how their meeting the previous night had gone. Or some shit. What did he know about people's emotions? Still, he heaved himself to his feet and walked over to the table. His lips twitched slightly at the picture of misery before him. With her head hiding in her arms, and the back of her hood and robe sporting a spreading wet spot, which told him she had in fact soaked her head in the river, she was a truly sad sight. He plunked the coffee mug down on the table and then took a seat, a small smirk curling his lips at the groan after the chair made its objections known. If he really was doing this out of any sense of empathy, he would stay silent and let her head stop pounding... but the monk just was not that considerate. "You're far from home, rat," he said in as close to a friendly voice as he ever got... which was a gruff, disinterested mutter since they were sitting across from each other, "Out to travel the world, or just tryin' to get in trouble?"

He watched her lift her head slowly, the tip of her muzzle the only thing visible under the hood. She reached out and wrapped her large hands around the mug, seeming to draw strength from its warmth, "Jus' passin' through," she ground out, and the redhead's brows drew together as he thought he recognized that voice, but then dismissed it. Even excusing roughness left by drink, sleep and hangover, Freya was articulate, and with such precise, sharp diction it could carve stone. He had never heard her leave off letters, so the familiarity was likely just... some Burmecian accent or something.

"Hell of an out of the way place to be passin' through," he commented as he watched her take a small sip of the coffee, "I thought all you rats were runnin' home as fast as you could to rebuild your city."

"Gotta take a break sometime."

The monk wondered if this was what it was like trying to have a conversation with him. Ah, life's little ironies, making him struggle to get more than a handful of words out of some strange woman. "I thought all you rats were hyper motivated by that prat and his bint..." he lifted a hand and easily caught the back-fisted blow she had suddenly struck out with, his giant hand easily swallowing hers, not moving on impact despite the force behind her strike, "Say somethin' wrong?" he asked dryly, smirking slightly.

Freya inwardly berated herself for striking at the redhead and tried to tug her hand back... but it was pretty bloody clear he had no intention of letting it go. "How d'ya know I ain't Cleyran?" she growled, doing her best to keep her voice rough despite the soothing effect the coffee had had on her throat. It kind of hurt, as did her adopted manner of speech, but no one would ever think the noble and formal Dragon Knight would speak in such a rough manner.

She watched that smirk on his face spread slightly, and was tempted to throw another punch. Asshole. "You're the wrong color," she grunted as he pulled her arm out and pushed up her sleeve, "Cleyrans are brighter, and look less like they blend into damn dreary Burmecia. Smell different too," her ears flicked up in surprise at that tidbit. She had not expected anyone other than one of her own kind or perhaps a Qu to know that. His smirk turned almost unbearably smug at her surprise, and she once more had to stop herself from trying to slug him, "Lastly, the Cleyrans don't revere that posh git and Crescent nearly as much as Burmecians."

The dragoon tugged harder on her hand trying to free it, "What, you wanna prize or somethin'?" the anger in the growl was not at all feigned, "Lemme go, y'great ape."

Alright, that might have been pushing it, because he squeezed her hand hard enough to dig her claws into her palm, making her wince, "I'm just tryin' to make conversation here," he growled, "You're lucky I ain't broken your arm yet, wench."

Once more Freya found herself quelling the urge to take another swipe at him, and she was half-tempted to yank her hood off and ask him if he wanted to take this outside. She resisted both urges, but could not help the soft squeak of pain that escaped her as he squeezed her hand again.

Normally hearing a noise like that would have put a sneer on Amarant's face. Normally he would have kept squeezing until the person was hollering apologies, and begging to be released, but for some reason that soft, pained sound made his hand spring open of its own accord. It had sounded too damn much like the _not_ whimper Freya had let out in the Fire Shrine when she had forced herself to stand on a leg that was damn near severed and run with him as they escaped the shrine before it collapsed on them. Damn rat. He sat back and folded his giant arms over his hugely broad chest and let the smug smirk fade from his face, the closest he would ever come to an apology. He watched impassively as she yanked her hand back, and rather than examine to see how bad the damage was, like damn near every other woman on the face of Gaia, she just tucked it under the edge of the table, as though she would hide the injury from him. Every other woman except one, that was. His eyes narrowed behind the curtain of his hair, as suspicion... and dread... began forming in his stomach. "Traveled with a Burmecian for a while," he grunted, "Tough lady, good fighter... but dumb as a sack of bricks." His suspicion grew as he watched the woman stiffen, "See, her man walked out on her. Rather than move on with her life, and forget his worthless ass, she pined for him, just like some stupid bint in a romantic play, and dedicated her life to searchin' the world for him. You know what happened when she found him?" he could _feel_ the glare through the hood, "He'd forgotten her... ain't that a bitch? Broke her heart all over again. You'd think at that point she'd get a clue and get out, right? But I told you she was dumb. Last I heard, she's still in Burmecia holdin' his hand and wastin' her life tryin' to get his memory back, and foolin' herself that what she's got is enough," he sneered, "Stupidest thing you've ever heard, right?"

"Love makes fools of us all," the prim response was _extremely_ out of character for what was supposed to be a rough street rat.

Amarant snorted, getting rather tired with all the conversation. He wondered if he should just walk away now. If that really _was_ the dragoon under there, did he really want to know? Did he want to know for sure that she had seen him go home with some stupid bitch? He was actually almost tempted to let it drop, and just leave... but... if it _was_ her, why was she in Treno? Furthermore, why was she in Treno in _disguise_? Was she in trouble or something? "Takes a special kind of stupid to be that big of a fool," he grunted, and got to his feet as though he would leave.

Freya had her injured hand resting in her lap, and was just waiting for the monk to leave to assess the damage and then apply a potion. It had been hard not to try to hit the redhead again, or kick him under the table. Even if... even if she was questioning her own devotion to Fratley, that did not mean that he had _any_ right to say that kind of thing to a... a complete stranger! Her shoulders hunched when he got to his feet, and she felt a guarded sense of relief that he would be leaving. She was more than ready to take her headache and slink out of this hell hole with her tail between her legs and pretend that this whole event never happened.

"One more thing," he said over her head, and the dragoon scowled under her hood, wondering when the hell he had gotten so damn talkative, "I just wanna ask..." she felt one of those giant hands on her hood, and a surge of panic moved through her. She had forgotten how fast Amarant could move when he wanted to, and she only had time to swear mentally and lift her hands ineffectually before he had her hood down, her face exposed, "What're you doin' here, Crescent?"

Well there was no help for it. She glared up at the older man, her eyes blazing with anger, "Being assaulted, left in a heap on the street, and listening to a diatribe about how stupid I am, it seems," she shot back, her voice normal once more as she got to her feet, "Why don't you go shout it from the rooftops, Coral?"

He simply folded his arms over his chest and continued to look down at her, "Why are you in disguise, rat?"

She continued to glare up at him as she pulled her hood back up over her face, "Because I don't bloody well want to be recognized!" she snapped back, "Why else would I be traveling like this?"

"Why didn't you say something last night?"

She sneered, "And ruin your plans for the eve? How ill you must think of me, my _friend_," the word was spat like a curse. She had the satisfaction of seeing him shift his weight as though in embarrassment before he surprised her.

"Wouldn't've been ruined if I'd known you were here," he grunted, and reached out to take her injured hand gently by the wrist, lifting it up so he could examine it, supporting it with his other hand.

Her brows went up both at his words and at the gesture, "So my presence means more to you than a sloppy drunken fuck," she felt a jolt of satisfaction at the shocked look on the lower half of his face, "I cannot tell you how that warms me down to the very toes," she tried to withdraw her hand, but he tightened his grip on her wrist, not hurting her, but holding her hand immobile.

"Stop bein' a bitch," he grumbled, experiencing the foreign emotion of shame, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a potion. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and then poured the green liquid over the puncture wounds from her claws. He watched the damage heal itself, then put the cork back in the bottle and returned it to his pocket, "Are you in trouble?" he asked gruffly, figuring that was likely the best reason for her to be running around dressed like she was.

"Beg pardon?" she asked, clearly nonplussed and somewhat derailed.

He scowled, releasing her hand, "Are you in trouble?" he growled slowly, as though talking to a dim child, "Because that's the only thing that would make you bein' here make sense."

She frowned at the tone, though the sentiment was... moving, in a way. However her headache made it not the day to be sentimental and appreciative. "Blow it out your ass, Coral," she replied, "If I were in trouble, what makes you think I'd come running to you?"

It was a good question... why _would_ she come to him if she was in trouble? "Because I'm the only one you know that's still a part of the underworld," he replied, "and certain types of trouble take trouble to get out of," he sneered, "but I guess you're right. You wouldn't come runnin' to me if you needed rescuin', you'd run to Sir Forgetful."

"Fratley!" she objected predictably.

"Pratlety," he said with a nod.

Freya indulged herself in a childish show of anger and stamped her foot, simultaneous satisfied at the creak the floor let out and in horrible pain from the jostling of her brain, "His name is Sir Iron Tail Fratley and _you_ are an asshole!" she jabbed him in the chest with a finger, and felt a surge of satisfaction at the scowl that resulted from her claw digging into his stony chest, "I would not run to _anyone_ if I was in trouble, because I am _not_ some stupid, empty-headed totty with more tits than brains that needs big strong men to ride to her rescue," she snarled viciously, "I take damn care of myself and my own problems, and I do not need Sir Fratley to play white knight, and I sure as bloody hell do not need _you_ to do it either, you great lummox!" the shouting was making her head hurt worse, but she was out of patience, "Now if you are _quite_ through mocking me, I am going home!"

Amarant's eyes narrowed behind the curtain of his hair and he grabbed her hand, pulling it away from his chest, "Not my fault you're stupid, rat," he growled back at her, "and if I'd shown up in Eternally Depressing, disguised as all hell, you'd think I was on the run from somethin' too," of course, he probably _would_ have been, but that was beside the point, "I guess this is what I get for tryin' to be nice, huh?" he sneered.

She punched him in the chest with her free hand... it was like punching a mountain. "You would not know 'nice' if it bit you on the ass," she accused.

He raised a brow, a gesture lost except for the slight shift of his dreadlocks, "I make it my personal business to know what bites me on the ass, especially if it's 'nice'." He smirked in satisfaction at the slight blush that colored her cheeks, "I already told you to stop being a bitch. If you don't, I'm gonna throw your scrawny ass in the river, and see if that helps."

He watched as doubt flickered through her eyes, "You wouldn't dare," she said, though she did not sound a hundred percent sure.

He sneered a challenge at her, "Try me, rat," he replied.

"I'd kill you," she threatened.

"You'd try." They stood there, holding one another's gaze, despite the obstruction blocking their view, neither willing to back down. The tension was treacle thick, and the bartender, who had been very carefully _not_ paying attention to the conversation, was afraid the room would explode if something did not happen soon. To his eternal relief, something finally _did_ happen... and it was not the feared explosion.

Freya reached out with her tail, wrapped it around a leg of her chair and pulled it over. Without breaking Amarant's gaze, she sat down with all of the grace she had lacked earlier. Had it been anyone else, Amarant would have taken that as a sign of surrender, and inwardly declared his victory... with the Burmecian however, it was merely a strategic retreat, meant to move the battle to a more desirous location that would give her the advantage. He toyed with the idea of remaining on his feet, but that would be an admittance of defeat on his part, because it would show that he was not confident, or brave, enough to rejoin the fray when the tides shifted. No, he reached out, grabbed a chair from a nearby table, and then pulled over, turning it around so he could sit backwards on it, and rest his huge arms over the back. They continued to hold each others' gaze, both ignoring the tortured, overburdened shriek the chair gave. They knew this bar, and despite its protests to the contrary, the furniture would hold.

The silence continued to stretch between them like standing rigging, vibrating with tension in the face of a ferocious storm. It silently shrieked, and groaned, threatening to snap and kill all aboard if some strain was not removed from the system. For once, it was Amarant that provided that relief. A new battle had started, this one with words as weapons, and the longer it took to start it, the more time his opponent had to prepare. He turned over a hand and gestured vaguely, "Well?" an exploratory thrust to test the defenses.

Freya reached out and picked up her coffee, easily dodging the attack, while carefully circling her opponent and making minute observations about his defenses. She took a sip of her coffee... and wrinkled her nose in disgust as the cold liquid hit her tongue. She quickly put down the cup and rapped on the table, startling the bartender into action. "It was the rain," she said mildly, as though that explained absolutely everything, a quick, well-executed thrust meant to end the battle in a single blow.

Amarant snorted, deflecting the blow easily with his shield of disbelief, "You're a rat," he said, following the block with a shield bash, meant to knock her off balance, "Your kind _loves_ the damn rain."

"While I love my homeland, and its meteorological peccadilloes," she replied primly, noting the frown that pulled down his lips. Unlike most other people, she knew it was not because he did not understand the words, but because he hated it when she started talking 'unnecessarily posh,' as he put it, "Sometimes one needs to dry out," a graceful spin away from the force of the blow.

"In order to prevent rot," he tenaciously followed her attempted retreat, keeping up the aggressive onslaught, "Funny you come to dreary Treno. Tradin' a meteorological peccadillo for a temporal anomaly?" Despite his constant attack and her strictly defensive maneuvers, they both knew she had scored first blood. There could be no other reason for his relentless assault, or his surrender to the 'unnecessarily posh' speech.

Freya did not reply right away. She simply watched the monk, letting the knowledge of her minor victory sink in, while refusing to be drawn into heated combat. Had it been anyone else, she would have let them wear themselves out, and then swooped in for the final blow, leaving her opponent confused, and wondering how he lost. But this was not just anyone, no, it was Amarant, and he was as seasoned a warrior as she, so that tactic would not work. She still had one advantage over him, however. She was a dancer... and what was a battle, but a dance between combatants? She could tell by the set of his jaw, that her elegant evasion was infuriating him, as was her refusal to attack, so she let him sit and simmer as the bartender brought her a fresh cup of coffee, and took away the cold one. She lifted the cup slowly, a shield to guard against the next rush, and took a sip of the hot beverage before saying, "I have no obligations in Treno. Even though it isn't as warm, or as bright as I'd like it to be, I can, or I _thought_ I could anyway, fade into the crowd and simply enjoy a few drinks." It was a token jab, one she did not expect to land, but hopefully enough of one to draw him into another reckless charge, and allow her to safely retreat from the battleground with her pride and dignity intact.

Once more the redhead's disbelief blocked the blow, "You drink damn near as much as I do," he replied, "'A few drinks' wouldn't get you anywhere _near_ as hungover as you were this morning," he took a carefully calculated swing and said, "What're you tryin' to forget, rat?" The way her posture immediately stiffened told him the hit scored.

"Can't a knight go out and get drunk?" was the weak defense, her hands tightening around her coffee cup as though the grip on her shield alone would save her from another attack, "I admit, I overindulged, but it's been some time since I had more than a few glasses of wine. Maybe my alcohol tolerance has faded." She realized almost as soon as she said it, that she had split her defense in two, leaving a large weak point between the arguments, and inwardly curse. Had it been so long since she had engaged in a battle of wits, that she was going to lose?

This time it was his turn to sit there and let her stew over what she had done wrong. He watched her take a sip of her coffee, and knew that she had dropped his gaze. Though they could not _actually_ see each others' eyes through hair and hood, he had always been able tell when she was looking him in the eyes. Unlike everyone else that had simply focused on the lower half of his face, or looked at a random point in his hair, she had seemed to know the exact location of his eyes, and her gaze carried... a weight. He could always tell when she was looking at him, and when their eyes met, it seemed to make an almost audible _click_ as they locked. Now though, now she was looking down into her drink. Not only had the hit scored, it had cut deeply. Rather than make him feel victorious, that made him even _more_ angry. He was in a shitty mood, and this stupid dance was making his head ache worse than it already had. A soft growl escaped him, and he reached out, smacking one giant hand down on the table, the noise loud enough to be heard outside... though it was obvious he had been going for sound over damage, because the table remained intact. He had the pleasure of seeing the Dragon Knight jump, since she had not been expecting that, and quickly followed up on his advantage, "I'm sick of playin' this game," he growled, "I'm not gonna sit here and try to drag it out of you. If you're miserable, it's your own damn business, and none of mine." He surged to his feet, rising like a volcanic eruption, "Shoulda left you to mope in private in the first place."

Freya had been stunned by the sudden noise, and then was further surprised when her opponent had just... given up... or had he? That parting line had sounded like another attack. "Yes you should have," she replied, feeling anger pour through her. Who was _he_ to talk about being sick of dragging conversation out of people? How many times had she slowly, and painstakingly pried information from him? And now that the tables were turned, he was going to _bitch_ about it? She sprang to her feet, her chair falling over backwards, "I didn't _ask_ you to interfere, and I certainly didn't _want_ you to! I just wanted to have a quiet drink by myself, and then hit the road!"

"After _one_ night of drinking, rat?" his tone was scathing, "Hell of a long way to come to have a single damn night of vacation before havin' to run back to Sir Forgetful!" Alright, he had meant to say 'back to your cubby under the floorboards,' but there was no way he was going to admit that he had not meant the jab... and jab it was, because the Burmecian drew back as though he had physically struck her. Damn it.

"Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I was running _away_ from something rather than to it?" she asked tightly, tension singing throughout her frame, "Besides that, it is none of your business, who or what, I am running to or from." She stepped carefully away from her chair, and then turned to head for the door, "I should have known that it was stupid to come to Treno," how she kept the ache from her voice, she did not know, "I think for my next vacation, I shall go to Condie Petie. They have good ale, and a decidedly better atmosphere."

"You'd've gone there this time, if that's where you really wanted to go," Amarant shot back, not following her, and having no intention of doing so, "Why are you in Treno, Freya?"

That was really the last straw. Her temper well and truly snapped, and she spun around, her fists clenched at her sides, "I came here to see you," she all but shouted, "I missed you, and I wanted to see you, so I left home, and came to this awful place, _just_ to be with you! There! Are you _happy_ now, Amarant? You know my bloody secret! And now I am going _home_ because I have had _quite_ enough of you!" with that, she turned back around and continued her effort to leave.

The monk was... slightly stunned at the outburst. He really had not been expecting that, and... he felt kind of bad for being such an asshole now, though it was only a distant twinge as his mind fixated on something else, something very _important_. "Be with me how?" he asked quietly.

The soft question stopped her short, her hand hand mid-reach for the doorknob. That had been the last thing she had expected him to ask, and so did not trust her ears, "Beg pardon?" she asked, not bothering to turn around.

"Be with me _how_, rat?" he asked louder this time, annoyed at having to repeat himself. You would think those huge ears actually served a damn purpose, and let them hear better.

Speaking of ears, Freya's went back in embarrassment, "You know," she temporized, glad that she had not turned around, so he could not see the blush that was tinging her cheeks, "Drink, talk, bicker... what we normally do."

She was lying. He could tell that by her body language, which said she would very desperately like to be _anywhere_ else at the moment. She kept it out of her voice, but it was as plain as day to someone who had spent a lot of time watching her that she was flustered, and off-balance. He shot a glare at the bartender fierce enough to make the man scuttle off and hide in the kitchen, where he could not bear witness to the conversation. Once the old man had left, he said quietly, "Don't you think you've lied to me enough today, rat? It's gettin' on my damn nerves."

The Burmecian looked down, annoyed at... well, being called on her lies. "You get on my nerves all the time," she said in an attempt to rally her failing defenses, "You truly hate having your own behavior turned back on you, don't you?" she finally put her hand on the door knob, "It doesn't matter, I'm leaving." She jumped in surprise when she felt two heavy hands fall on her shoulders... and half way down her upper arm. _Damn_, she had forgotten that he could move entirely silently when he so chose, "Let me go!" Her protest was answered by being spun around to face the monk, the motion pulling her hand roughly away from the door. She scowled blackly as she was lifted from her feet until she was eye-level with the redhead.

"_I've_ never lied to you!" he growled angrily, "Be with me _how_, Freya?"

She opened her mouth to refute his words, and to demand that he set her down... but his use of her name made the protest die on her tongue. The temporary pause gave her brain time to kick in, and prevent her from simply reacting... which was likely the reason he had done it. In that second, she realized that no, he had _not_ lied to her in as long as she had known him. He had deflected, walked away, fallen silent, and made her drag information out of him one teeny tiny sentence at a time, but he had always told her the truth. Damn him all to hell. "Put me down," she said it quietly, making it a request more than a demand. To her surprise, he did as she wished, though he kept his hands where they were, and he held her gaze with a fierce determination, telegraphed by the scowl that pulled down his lips. Gods, gods... looking up at him, all she could say was, "I'm Doga and Une's own fool," her voice was soft as a breeze, and as bitter as dandelion milk, "and all Six Dragons laugh at me from their lofty thrones, even gentle Reis." She could not take the weight of his unseen eyes boring into her soul anymore. He already had her heart, damn him to hell, she had to keep _some_ pitiful inch to herself to barricade against him, and hide in her misery. "I love you, Amarant," the declaration was so quiet, even she had trouble hearing it.

"Say again?"

Even though that was _entirely_ reasonable, she wanted to hit him. Well, in for a gil, in for a grand. She gathered up the tatters of her shredded dignity and pulled them about her like an emperor's robe, standing up straighter, lifting her head and opening her eyes once more. She was a Royal Dragon Knight of Burmecian, not the rat he accused her of being, and the gods, if she was going to go down in flames, she was going to do it with _pride_... since it was all she had left. She reached up, mildly surprised that he allowed her to do so, though he did not remove his hand, and pushed back her hood as well as her bangs. She knew she much look ridiculous with her wet hair spiking up in the unusual position, but for once, she wanted her eyes to be barren of obstacles, so he could be sure of the truth of her words, "I love you, Amarant Coral," she said in something only slightly quieter than her normal voice, "you soulless, heartless bastard. There, happy now?"

Well it was nice to know that his ears had not deceived him. Amarant stared down into those brilliant emerald pools of defiance, some part of him amused that she had turned a declaration of love into both a challenge and an insult. Gods, was this _real_, or was someone playing a joke on him? There was really no time for that doubt to linger, given the serious expression on her ratty, unkempt, stubborn... beautiful face. "No," he said in answer to her question, and watched the hurt, heartbreak, and shame pass through her eyes so quickly he might have thought it a trick of the light, had he not known her better. He hated it. He hated it so much, he released a shoulder, and raised his hand so he could carefully, gently, tenderly lift her chin, tilting her head further back. Surprise flashed in those luminous green orbs as he ducked his own head, and pressed his lips to hers. It was awkward as all hell, since he had never kissed a rat before, and so this was all guess work on his part... but once he was sure he had gotten the point across, he broke the kiss, returned his hand to her shoulder and waited.

Freya quaked. There was no other way to describe it, she shook from her body, to her heart, to her soul. She licked her lips without thinking, tasting him there, coffee, alcohol, and a hint of something spicy. When she found her voice, all she could say was, "Amarant?"

He watched her reaction, and felt her trembling under his hands. He really was a bastard wasn't he? Still, before he said _anything_, anything at all, he had to know. "What about Fratley?"

Her answer was swift, quiet, and straight from the heart, "My Sir Fratley died years ago. I don't... can't... love the man wearing his face now."

_That_ was what he had needed to hear. He had _needed _to know that she was no longer fooling herself, or living in the past, and that she had finally freed herself. So it was only with a _little_ reluctance, but as much gruffness as ever, that he said, "Love you too, rat princess."

This time it was Freya that kissed him, putting her hands on his chest for balance, and raising on her tip toes to reach him. While _he_ did not know how to kiss a rat, _she_ knew how to kiss a human... though the jury was still out on whether or not he was one. Hell... maybe it was worth not being a lady. Ladies did not end up with outlaw bounty hunters, after all, and that was exactly where she wanted to be.


End file.
